when city lights dim
by Wonderstruck-Ambition
Summary: How long has it been since someone touched a part of you other than your body? Or, Ally runs away and Austin finds her and loves her anyway, even if they're both a little crazy.


**when city lights dim**

**Disclaimer: so basically this is actually really terrible and it's written like really late at night and whatever.**

**Couple notes before we go on: this could be triggering SO. I'm going to do something that people on tumblr an ao3 do which is basically list anything that could trigger someone. If you're particularly sensitive to:**  
**Prostitution, mentions of the psychiatric ward, depression, anxiety, slight alcoholism, self-harm, eating disorders, dubious consent in sex, or running away from problems, it might be a good idea to click the nice x at the top of your screen. Not a lot is outright blatantly acknowledged, just mentioned.**

**Further:**  
**Basically, uh, I'm just going to say that there is a lot more you could be doing with your life than anything described here. Please don't run away from home. PLEASE stay away from prostitution, it's so incredibly dangerous. If you at all ever feel the need to self-harm, please talk to someone. If you feel uncomfortable doing that, there are a lot of things you can do instead. I've been known to snap a rubber band with a hard bead on it around my wrist, HARD, and to curb that i doodle all over instead. :) Links for hotline numbers and helpful websites are in my bio. And if you ever need to talk I will be here! But please stay safe. x**

**ALSO the little one-liner conversations take place in the future until it's obvious that time has caught up. :)**

ღ

.  
_How long has it been since someone touched a part of you other than your body?_

ღ

.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, not really. She was supposed to curl into him at night, his breath on her back and her lips on his collarbone.

She wasn't supposed to be on her own like this, unloved. She wasn't supposed to sell what she has to strangers; married men looking for someone younger than their wife.

He wasn't supposed to leave her. But he wasn't supposed to find her, either.

Yet find her he does, just as another customer has his hands up her skirt and she's blocking out the noises, thinking of better times. She opens her eyes, and he's there.

And. Well.

He looks good; surprised, shocked. But he looks at her with- this look in his eyes, so different than what she'd ever imagined.

Some sort of forgiveness.

And she can't face that, can't face this. So she pushes the older man off of her, ignores both males, and does the only thing she's good at.

She runs.

ღ

.

"Sweetheart, please come home-"

Delete.

"Ally, Trish and Austin are really wor-"

Delete.

"Babe listen, I love you, we can work something-"

Delete.

ღ

.  
The stars are disappearing.

(Like the bees and the problem of not having enough honey and pollen, but the analogy isn't pretty or poetic.)

The stars are disappearing and the sky is opening up, wide, wide, wide, like a big blue ocean of nothing. Soon, there will be nothing, she thinks, but nobody seems to believe her at all.

(Except one boy who has secrets in his smile and stars in his eyes.)

(She thinks that's where the stars disappeared to. His eyes.)

ღ

.

"I'm glad you found me."

"I'm glad I found you, too."

"I used to hope that you would. Sort of."

"I'll ignore the sort of and kiss you instead."

ღ

.

There's maybe one hundred stars left in her nighttime sky- burning bright, hot, shiny. But one hundred stars isn't enough to fill up the whole night, not enough to light a path for her to see.

So she cries for the stars and for the loss of the light. She cries for the loss of any sort of happiness, and she is told to deal with it, to face up to her problems rather than live in a fairytale.

Only, one boy understands about the stars, and suddenly it's okay to cry.

ღ

.

"You're not crazy, you know."

Silence.

"They were wrong to make you feel that way."

Silence.

"You don't have to hide from me. I know who you are under all that, and I won't hurt you."

"Oh."

ღ

.

"You need to admit you have problems," she is told. "That's the only way to begin to fix them."

But she doesn't have problems, none at all. The world is against her, forcing labels onto who she is.

(Messed up, head case, insane, certifiably crazy.)

And another star fades out.

ღ

.

"I'm almost getting it kind of together."

ღ

.

She finds the stars in the eyes of a boy who knows too much and smiles too little.

"Tell me about yourself," She whispers, grabbing his hand and resting their fingers on the itchy grass. "Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out."

"I love you," he says instead, and another star finds itself in his eyes.

ღ

.

"Stargaze with me?"

"Thought you couldn't see the stars."

"I'm trying."

ღ

.

He's the only one who doesn't think she's crazy. He's a boy with stars in his eyes and she's a girl who needs those stars. She's a girl whose sky has become a black hole of nothing, with not a single twinkling light to burn bright for her.

He doesn't laugh when she says she'd rather have flowers in her hair than diamonds around her neck. Instead, he picks the flowers for her.

And another star finds it's way to his eyes.

ღ

.

"You haven't left yet."

"I won't leave until you want me to."

"Oh."

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

ღ

.

She asks him why his smile has secrets and he just shakes his head softly, kisses the top of her head. "I love you," He says, and. Well. That's good enough for her.

ღ

.

"Why did you let me stay? When I found you?"

"Um."

"You don't have to answer."

"I do."

"Oh."

"You made me feel whole again. Like I wasn't dirty or used or broken."

"You're not any of those things."

"I'm trying."

ღ

.

And it's good enough for the both of them, really, until it isn't. Love is a fleeting thing, after all, and she knows she should be grateful she ever had him at all. But she never really had him, not the way the other girl now does.

ღ

.

"It wasn't you, you know."

"I know."

"It was all too much."

"I know."

"I'm not perfect."

"I know."

"I'm not crazy."

"I know."

"You weren't supposed to find me."

"But I did."

"I know."

ღ

.

High school is supposed to be the best time of your life, the days where you go crazy and have fun and make lifelong friends.

And. Well.

She's already crazy.

(Head case. Insane. Let's take you to the nice doctor. They won't hurt you, not if you tell the truth.)

She's not having fun.

(Except when she lies in the sun with him and he picks flowers for her hair and she feels like a princess.)

And. Well.

Lifelong friends.

(Of course there's Dez- sweet, innocent Dez. He'll never hurt her, she knows. He'll always be there, she knows. He loves her, she knows.)

(Of course there's Trish. Loud, obnoxious, lovely Trish. Trish will always be there for her, she knows. Trish won't let anything bad happen to her, she knows. Trish loves her, she knows.)

(And then there's him. Stupid, stupid boy, with secrets in his smile and stars in his eyes and a constellation of love on his skin and. Well. She loves him, a little. And she knows he's still there. She knows she'll always be his girl, no matter who else comes into the equation. She knows he loves her, she really does.)

(But not in the way Trish and Dez love each other, she knows. That's special.)

(1+1+1+1= 2 couples + one very lonely girl.)

ღ

.

"How are they? Trish and Dez?"

"In love."

"Must be nice."

"I wouldn't know."

ღ

.

She dates other boys but it isn't the same. Dallas' arms aren't as big, his hair isn't as bright, his laugh isn't as wonderful.

But he gives her promises, both silent and vocal, and she finds herself unwilling to break things off.

(I'll always love you, darling, we'll have a future together, I love you so much.)

(She's not sure if she wants that.)

ღ

.

"Was it something I said-"

Delete.

"Hey, it's me, I know you don't-"

Delete.

15 New Messages.

Deleted.

ღ

.

Music is silly, they say. You'll never get anywhere, they say. She's too plain, too shy, too broken and messed up to make it anyplace.

So she cries into her pillow and tries to figure out a back up plan.

ღ

.

"I needed a back up plan."

"This was it?"

"I said I needed one, I never said I had one."

"Oh."

ღ

.

Dez is going to work with film, and she knows he'll be good at it no matter what. Dez is perfect, really, everyone will want to see what he can do.

Trish can do anything, she knows. Trish isn't scared of anything, so she doesn't even need a back up plan.

And he. Well. He was born for great things, she knows. He could do anything and everything and make it work for him. He could be a rockstar or a surgeon or a trash collector and make it seem like the best career on the planet. And. Well. She knows that one day he'll be up there with all the stars she can't see anymore.

ღ

.

"Did the stars come back for you?"

"New York has too many lights. They cover them up."

"So you can't see them at all?"

"...sometimes."

"Mm."

ღ

.

High school, it turns out, doesn't prepare her for the real world. There's no soft cushion for her to fall back on; she knows a total of 2 people at her university. (Herself and the Dean, who conducted her interview.)

The tuition is expensive and her parents grumble about paying it. She knows it's a shock, after all.

(Education wasted on that stupid mind. College for a stupid girl. She should be in the hospital, not on her own.)

But she's determined to prove them wrong. He always said that she was perfect, that she wasn't messed up. He told her that his mom had once had depression, too, and she was a lovely lady. He said having anxiety was alright, it didn't make her any less of a woman in his eyes. He said she was perfect, and she believed him.

ღ

.

"You didn't want to stick to your roots, then?"

"The roots aren't why I left..."

"Why did you leave?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

ღ

.

He isn't there when she goes home over winter break. Trish is there, Dez is there. Trish hugs her and suffocates her with her mass of curls; Dez shrieks and drops what he's doing to wrap her in his lanky arms.

And. Well. It's nice.

But it's missing a fourth person.

(He's coming soon, they say. Shh, it's alright, they say. He wouldn't miss you for the world, they say.)

And. Well. She believes them.

ღ

.

"If we ever went back-"

"No."

"You wouldn't have to talk to your parents-"

"No."

"Just Trish and Dez?"

"...I'll think about it."

ღ

.

She shouldn't have come home from college. Not to her parents, who don't love her, not really. If they loved her, they wouldn't insult her or tear her down. If they loved her, they wouldn't blame her for having problems. If they loved her, they wouldn't try to send her away.

ღ

.

"I'm sorry you think you're messed up."

"Fucked up. And I don't think I am. I know I am."

"If you're fucked up then I'm fucked up too."

"No you're-"

"And you want to know something?"

"Mm."

"You're beautiful when I'm fucked up."

ღ

.

She makes it to New York; big, bright, beautiful. She has a hole-in-the wall shitty apartment, purchased with the leftover money in her bank account and with a generous decrease in rent from the landlord.

(He said she was pretty.)

They won't find her here, she thinks. They'll look for her, but they won't find her. New York is big and bright and beautiful and they could look for days and never find her.

ღ

.

"You don't have any books."

"Didn't bring any."

"You miss them?"

"No." Yes.

(He takes her to the bookstore anyway.)

ღ

.

She decides that dying the ends of her hair bright red might be a good idea. She's already crazy, why not cement the image?

So she walks to the drugstore, (terrified the whole way, hugging her coat against her thin frame.) and purchases a box of the brightest red dye they have.

When she gets home, she stares testily at the package for a good twenty minutes; the model on the cover is just daring her to do it.

You're already crazy, she thinks. You're already alone. He didn't love you before, so why should you care now?

And when it's all over, she doesn't mind that the ends of her hair are bright red. It looks nice, she thinks. A little abstract, a little crazy, but still beautiful.

(It would be beautiful if it wasn't her face the hair was attached to.)

(She covers the mirror and walks away.)

ღ

.

"I miss the red."

"No you don't."

"Maybe just on the ends."

"Maybe."

ღ

.

It takes him two years to come find her. Two years, four hundred and sixty three unanswered messages from friends and family, and 9 boxes of red hair dye before he finds her.

And when he does, she runs.

That's the only thing she knows how to do.

ღ

.

"You always hated sports."

"You were amazing, though."

"You are, now, too."

"At what?"

"Running."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

ღ

.

She moves across town, into the same building as another girl she knows from her line of work. They have a tenuous friendship; enough to acknowledge one another but realize they're competing, and whoever wins the fight won't be so cold or hungry later on.

And yet, it's only a week before he finds her there.

ღ

.

"Think we could paint the ceiling?"

"Why do you want to that?"

"Make this place look like you."

"It does look like me, I live here!"

"I'm pretty sure you've never been a beige wall in all of your life."

"I'm pretty sure I am now."

ღ

.

"How did you-"

"Desiree De La Rosa wasn't your best idea for a name on a lease, babe," he says to her, his first words face-to-face in two years. "But they'll be flattered."

"Uh," She coughs, hiding behind her heavy metal door. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you," He says, shrugging. (Isn't it obvious?)

"Why?"

"I'll always find you," he says softly. He leans out and touches the top of her head, stroking her hair. "New color. It's nice."

She knows he's lying, but she doesn't close the door on him just yet.

ღ

.

"He was going to propose. I think."

"Oh?"

"I heard him talking. To my parents, and. Well. I freaked out."

"Understandably."

"I didn't want to marry him."

"I know."

"It wouldn't have ended well."

"Mm."

"Is he alright?"

"...it took a while."

"Is she blonde or brunette?"

"Redhead."

"Mm."

ღ

.

He sees her scars and shakes his head, holds her tightly.

"Why?"

"It hurts," She cries into his t-shirt. "A lot."

"Shh," He whispers, trying not to cry himself. "I'm here."

ღ

.

"Dallas was pretty torn up about it," He whispers into her hair.

"We weren't like. Engaged. Or anything like that," She insists, even though she knows he wanted them to be.

"You were pretty serious," He protests, but she shakes her head.

"Not to me."

ღ

.

"You can't fix me," She says.

(I might want you to.)

"Who says I'm trying?" He says slyly, smirking at her over a slice of apple pie.

(I'm trying.)

"Dallas tried."

(He failed.)

"Good thing I'm not Dallas, then," He says, before turning back to America's Next Top Model. "Shh. Tyra's on."

(You're not ready to have this conversation and I'm going to wait for you.)

ღ

.

"Can we not watch this?"

"You used to love Pretty Woman."

"Not when you're one of those girls."

"You don't have to be. Anymore, that is."

"Mm."

ღ

.

She doesn't know how she ended up like this, really, except that she didn't have money and was alone and cold and she had no other options.

And she knows, she knows, that he's aware of what she does. He saw her in the middle of working (and thanks to him she lost a good hundred off of that man.)

But he never looks at her with judgement or disgust or anger or even pity. Just his stupid, stupid mix of forgiveness and love and perfection.

ღ

.

"I never saw myself like this."

"I never saw myself like this either."

"But you're not messed up, you're-"

"If you're broken, then I am, too."

ღ

.

He's around for a while, seeing her every day. After the first two weeks she just gives him a key. (It's easier.)

He nods, slips it in his pocket, and. Well. That's that.

ღ

.

"Why would you come for me?"

"I will always come for you."

"But why?"

"We gotta keep you seeing the stars, love."

"That's not an answer, Austin."

"That's the answer you're getting, Ally."

ღ

.

She stopped looking into mirrors around the same time her entire head of hair became red. Seeing herself would only induce a bout of crying, and she didn't need that.

So no mirrors in her apartment.

ღ

.

"Sweetheart, please come home, we really-"

Delete.

"Ally. You're my best friend. Please-"

Delete.

"Your mother and I weren't trying to hurt you, but-"

Delete delete delete.

ღ

.

He doesn't say much when he hangs around her apartment. He doesn't comment on the empty beer bottles or the many glasses of vodka or the overturned mess her life seems to be. He just settles in, comfortably enough, back into her life like he fits.

And. Well.

Maybe he always has.

Fit, that is.

ღ

.

"Did you get lost, or something? Is that why you're here?"

"If you're here, I'm obviously not lost."

"Or you clearly are."

ღ

.

He doesn't say anything when she comes back reeking of sex and creepy men; he doesn't say anything when she immediately opens a beer before eating. He doesn't say anything when she refuses to look anywhere near the one mirror she has, propped up in a dusty corner. (He also doesn't ask why she took it off of the bathroom wall and left the space above the sink depressingly blank.)

He doesn't say anything, but he watches her, concerned and silent.

ღ

.

"Thought you'd be taken by now. Where's the Mrs.?"

"There isn't one."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

ღ

.

He doesn't ask questions or yell at her, screaming "Why?" Or insult her. He curls into her on the couch as they watch America's Next Top Model and Full House and Top Gear and during commercial breaks he hums like he used to and she thinks she's alright.

Except. Well.

When he hums it's just like he used to, and it brings her back to high school.

A group of best friends and a boy who loved her and a girl who loved the same boy she did. A curly haired girl kissing a redheaded boy and ice cream and music stores and brown hair and not being thin enough to break. She remembers flowers in her hair and linking hands and her parents threatening her. She remembers doctor visits and pills, lots of pills, and specialists writing reports to her parents and seeing stars in his eyes and realizing his smile had secrets and also realizing he didn't love her like she loved him.

So when he hums, she thinks she's alright and that everything is fine. And then, well. It isn't fine, and she's pushing out of his arms and screaming bloody murder and crying into a pillow and then he's there. Arms around her and soft words and hair that smells like the fields they used to lay in and. Well. She's alright now, she supposes.

ღ

.

"Do you still-"

"I haven't had luck finding a job."

"Oh."

"In the two years I've been here."

"Oh."

"So. Yes. I do still...yeah."

ღ

.

She wakes up one morning and realizes he's here for good. His jacket is draped over the couch and she records Top Gear just for him and he's always making her breakfast and there's a yellow tooth brush next to her green.

And she gets anxious, begins to panic. (And panics more because she hasn't needed her pills in so long, and she refuses to start now, and-)

"'Mm," he grumbles, rolling over. "Want some bacon? I want some bacon."

"Yeah," she squeaks. "Okay."

And she rolls back into his chest and falls asleep because his collarbones are more soothing than the pills anyway.

ღ

.

"You. Uh. Haven't been working strange hours this week."

"Mm."

"Any, uh, reason for that?"

"Maybe."

"Do I get to know?"

She kisses him instead.

ღ

.

It's not really a thing. He just lives with her and shares her bed and kisses her and tells her she's beautiful. (But stops when she asks him to.)

It's not really a thing, it's just.

Them. It's them.

ღ

.

"Why didn't you call me? I would have-"

"Helped? Please."

"I would have."

"No one could have helped me, love. I needed to be on my own."

"Mm."

ღ

.

She sees the girl she knows, Candi who is really Candy who is really Courtney.

"You doing alright?" Courtney asks her tentatively, bags under her eyes and scratches on her cheek. "You're not around as much. Which is a good thing I guess."

"Yeah," Ally says slowly, looking back into the apartment where Austin's still asleep. "I'm doing alright, I suppose."

"He's a cute one," Candi-Candy-Courtney offers, a blush staining her marked cheeks. "Keep tight to him."

"Oh we're not-" Ally tries, but stops herself. "Yeah. Yeah I think I'll keep him around."

ღ

.

"Haven't had any bruises lately."

"I know."

"Thank you. For taking care of yourself."

"I'm trying."

ღ

.

"Do you ever want to go home?" He asks softly, toying with the ends of her damaged red hair. "To see everyone."

"Do you?"

"I'm not the one who's been away for two years."

She smarts at that, tears pricking her eyes, because she has been gone that long.

"I...don't know," She admits, looking away from him. "I don't know."

"I don't need an answer right away," He says casually, throwing an arm over her waist. "But sometime might be nice."

"Um. Okay," she coughs, tears falling. "Yeah. Sometime. I'll uh, figure it out."

"Of course you will," he says firmly. "You always do."

ღ

.

"You were gone all day."

"Mhm."

"You're wearing a nametag."

"I am wearing a nametag."

"You must be working somewhere."

"I must."

"Does that mean you're done?"

"It means that I'm the new hostess at Marcella's Italian Eats."

"That's not an answer, Ally."

"That's the answer you're getting, Austin."

ღ

.

She works for herself rather than a...she hates the word. Rather than someone who manages a ring of hookers. And since she works for herself, leaving is relatively easy and pain-free. She stops going out on her busiest night as soon as she applies to nearly every restaurant within 10 miles. After she gets a job as a hostess, she cuts back her hours until she hasn't been out in two weeks.

And. Well.

The pay isn't as dirty, she likes to think. Steadier, and the paycheck has her name on it.

And the restaurant is a family place, so there's comparatively less creepy men.

She doesn't know why she stopped.

(She does.)

Maybe it's because he never got angry.

(Not with her. Just the world.)

Maybe it's because all he ever did was forgive her and hold her at night and not question her bruises.

(And buy her cream to heal them.)

She likes to think she quit for herself, really.

(But she knows she didn't.)

ღ

.

When she comes home from her first month of working, Austin swoops her up in a hug that's all arms and whispers and warmth and she's just very, very happy.

"I'm so proud of you," He whispers into her hair.

"Is it bad if I say I'm proud of me, too?"

"No, that's the most important," he insists, and they forget about dinner and find their way to the bed instead.

ღ

.

After month two at Marcella's, she comes home with a box of brown hair dye and a new brush.

"Help me?" She asks nervously, fiddling with the box. "I think I'm ready."

The red has grown out, now, until it looks like she dip-dyed the ends. (Or had a bad accident with a can of red paint.)

He swallows heavily but heads to the bathroom with her. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Of course."

ღ

.

"You're beautiful."

"Now that my hair doesn't look like ketchup?"

"You've always been beautiful."

"No-"

"Always. More beautiful than all the stars in the sky that you think you can't see, but I know you can."

"That's a whole lot of stars, then."

"Mhm."

"That's also a whole lot of beautiful."

"Mhm."

ღ

.

Three months into working at Marcella's and Ally doesn't recognize her apartment.

For one, the mirror got put back up.

(She agrees that it does look like it belongs there.)

(Because it does.)

For another, the walls of her (their) room are sky blue and beautiful.

And there hasn't been any alcohol in the house in three months.

(She doesn't miss it.)

ღ

.

"Your arms, do they ever hurt?"

"Not as much, when there's no fresh ones, really."

"Have they hurt in a while?"

"Not for a couple months, now."

"Oh."

ღ

.

"Why don't you pick up? When Trish calls. Or Dez. Or your parents."

She raises an eyebrow at him over their Chinese takeout, being consumed on the floor of her (their) apartment.

"You know why I don't pick up when it's my parents."

"Okay, yeah," he winces, "that was bad. But Trish is your best friend. And Dez is like..a brother to you or something!"

"Yeah, I know," she sighs, slurping up her chow mein. "I don't know. I. I'll pick up one of these days but not...yet."

"No pressure," He replies quietly, kicking her foot with his. "It's alright."

ღ

.

"You, uh. You eat more now."

"I suppose I do."

"You don't look like you're about to break anymore."

"I'm trying."

ღ

.

He's been working at a record company while they've been living together, and he likes it. He takes her in one day, to see how it all works, and everything is so nice&new&shiny&bright that she almost panics, but her hand is in his and. Well. She doesn't need to panic.

ღ

.

"You're doing good, Ally."

"I'm trying, Austin."

ღ

.

She comes home from work with papers comparing airline flights and times and asks when he can fly back with her.

ღ

.

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

"How much?"

"More than all the stars you can't see."

"I can see them now."

"I know. More than all the stars you can and can't see, and more than all the hairs you dyed red and more than all the flowers I've ever put in your hair. More than all of that times a hundred."

"That's a whole lot of love, isn't it?"

"It is."

"I guess it's a good thing that I love you, too, then."

"I guess it is."

ღ

.

She can see the stars now, because Florida has less lights than New York does. She can see the stars when they lie out on the beach across the way from their house (it's theirs.) and stargaze, hands linked and brown hair colliding with blonde.

She can see the stars all she wants.

But. Well.

She doesn't need to look up to see them.

They're all in his eyes.

ღ

.

**AN: that was so stupid what was I thinking.**

**Stay safe**

**x**


End file.
